


The Ride

by Lady Clytemnestra (Lady_Clytemnestra)



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Coven
Genre: Drug Use, F/F, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Incest, Molestation, One scene of hetero rape that ends in the man murdered
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 00:09:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13042422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Clytemnestra/pseuds/Lady%20Clytemnestra
Summary: Cordelia's Sight shows her things from a forgotten past; Fiona's injury reveals deep secrets between mother and daughter. (Work in Progress.)





	The Ride

  Fiona glared at the empty bottle, smoke curling around her cheeks, her blonde locks, sinews of it coiling over her lip from her nose. She couldn't be out of it already, couldn't have taken that much. She tapped the ash off into a half-drank glass of some whiskey or another, pulled another drag. She tried calculating in her head, but couldn't get her thoughts to focus. Couldn't make her mind stay on the numbers, the amount of pills she'd taken, how many times a day, whether or not the little round friends of hers had gone down with or without blue and yellow compadres, or whether or not the white pills she could see in her hand in her mind’s eye were the ones from this bottle or another. Her arsenal was running dry. She needed more. More pills. More liquor. More blow. She stood up, lost her balance. Threw a hand out to catch herself on the dresser, but missed. Where the fuck had her cigarette gone? Well. Whatever. If the smoke alarms went off, she'd give a shit then. But now, now she had a bigger prize to root out. She yanked the top right drawer open with a tremor-riddled jerk, felt around in the silks and lace for a baggie. No dice. She opened the one beside it, desperation building. Stocking, garters, underwire, no plastic. 

“Fuck,” she mumbled, ran her fingers through thinning hair, could feel the panic rising in her chest.

\---

Cordelia heard the glass smash, the sound of drawers hitting the floor, splintering and cracking, her mother's voice as she growled and cursed. She ran down the hall when she heard the gasp of pain, burst into her mother's room to see the older blonde clutching her hand in shock, staring at her palm, coated in slick red. Fiona kicked the dresser, the toe of her pump connecting with the side wall and crushing it. Cordelia grabbed something off the bed, wrapped it around her mother's hand, held tight.

“Damn bottle,” the Supreme murmured. Her eyes slipped closed, her knees buckled. Cordelia caught her bicep, held her, helped her sit on the settee at the foot of her bed.

Weary eyes opened, took in her daughter, the silent specter in the room.

“Cat got your tongue, too?”

Cordelia set her jaw.

“What?”

“You 'n’ Spalding,” Fiona smiled, sardonic tones dripping from every word, “the Silent Twins.”

Cordelia pulled the fabric away, checked the wound. Jagged. Splinters embedded themselves in the gash. She placed the fine boned hand, palm up, on her mother's slip-covered knee.

“I need supplies.” She stood. “Don't move.”

Once again, her mother was wasted. Was there ever a time, lately, now she thought about it, that her mother wasn't wasted? What a Supreme. Cordelia crouched in front of the cabinet in her greenhouse, pulled various flasks, phials, bottles, herbs, and tinctures from the shelves. A basket filled with sage caught her eye. Sage tumbled to the tabletop, bottles etcetera gingerly placed, cradled against the wicker. Two small candles, a duo of holders, matches, scissors, clean bandages, and water. Lots of water. She carried the load back inside, up the stairs, down the hall.

Fiona was on her knees, her palm planted firmly in a pile of fine white powder, softly moaning.

The younger witch put the basket on the floor, ran to her mother, yanked her up by the hair.

“Get off me…” Fiona mumbled, half-heartedly waving her arms at her daughter, brushing blood and cocaine all over Cordelia’s face. The contact sent her reeling, and she saw…

_Her mother lay on the bed, her slip, that same off-white satin slip, around her hips, the straps well off her shoulders, blood smeared over her cut lip. Her throat in large hands, a man’s hands, her own clawing at anything she could reach. His eyes, his face, anything, as she turned redder and ruddy, less oomph in each ragged wheeze. He thrust into her as her hands fell away, a tear rolling over her cheek. Over an old bruise. Fingerprints speckled her thighs and arms, varying g ages, his breath reeked. Vomit, alcohol, cunt. His hands relaxed, Fiona whimpered, her lips crushed under his as he kissed her brutally, and he collapsed on her. One of those hands patted her hip. He muttered something about a good wife, and rolled off her, tottered for the door, calling Cordelia's name, and stopped. Hit the floor with a sickening thud. Fiona stood, panting, the knife in her hand, and spit on his body._

Cordelia recoiled, retched, covered her borrowed eyes with a shaking hand and fell to her knees. Like her father in the vision. She panted. Like her blood-covered mother.

“You…” she breathed.

“What did you see?” her mother asked, crawling to her. “Baby…”

Cordelia felt her stomach lurch again.

“My father…”

Fiona grazed Cordelia's hand, tried to grasp it, until her daughter’s gasp and wail as the Sight took her again.

_Tiny thighs under yellow shorts, a sweet laugh on the air._

_“Mommy!”_

_Pigtails bounced as she ran over the lawn to her bikini-clad mother, fluttered like wings as strong pale hands lifted her up into the sunlight and coral lips kissed her forehead._

_“Delia, baby, you are a sight for sore eyes.” A throaty laugh. High heels made their mark on the boards of their porch, the screen door creaked open, and the girl rested her cheek on warm breasts. A tiny tongue ventured out and tasted them. A deep rumble rose from her mother, and the couch rose up to meet her bottom. Her mother crouched in front of her. The back of the couch was uncomfortable. Not as soft as her mother. Those hands went to the back of her neck, untied the suit at the back of the little girl's neck._

_“We talked about this, Delia, now you know you can't do that outside of this house.”_

_Little nose wrinkled._

_“We have rules for a reason, baby, and our friendship has to stay a secret.” The same hands untied the peach bikini top, it fell away. A warm feeling washed over the little girl, her mother kicked off her bottoms, and laid on the couch beside her, opened her thighs._

_“You can only touch me inside the house. Remember?”_

_Little nod._

_Her mother beamed. “Good girl. Ready?”_

_Little nod._

_“Mm. Get set, Plaything…”_

_Little face peered over a soft round belly and tight blonde curls between long pale thighs._

_“Go.”_

 

Cordelia screamed, Fiona jumped. Tried to hold her daughter, but long nails clawed her right eye.

“Fuck!”

She clutched her face, pain blinding her, heard Cordelia scrabble to her feet and run pell mell for the door. A door slammed. One word rang through the house, a wail, one that sent her blood pounding, ice cold.

 

“Plaything”.

\-----

Marie tutted.

“Got you damn good.”

“Can you fix it or not?” Fiona spat.

 

“I can fix it, but you gonna have one hell of a scar.”

She stood, brushed her braids over her shoulder.

“And it'll hurt. Like a motherfucker.”

 

Fiona exhaled, put out her cigarette.

“Will it work? Will I see out of it?”

“You will. Not as well as you could, but,” she tutted again, “hell, a little is better than a whole lot of nothin’.”

Fiona laughed.

“You ready?” Marie asked.

 

“Ready as I'll ever be. Let's get this shit show over with.”

\-----

Cordelia scrubbed her mother's floor, the stench of bleach and bottled lavender seeping into her hair, her nose, her clothes. She scrubbed at the blood and cocaine until her back ached and her knuckles howled. For years she questioned her own sanity, the way she felt herself flush and clench at her mother's voice, the way her legs looked in stockings, the scent that clung to the air long after she'd left a room, the electricity that fueled her fantasies when she'd indulge herself in the dark. She loved the way her mother made her feel. But it frightened her. Sickened her. And now… now it repulsed her. Drove her mad as her mind spun out in the silence of the morning, plaything, plaything, _plaything._

Was it always about that? Her body telling her the secret her mind refused to recall? Or was it the root? Was it the very thing that started their… “friendship”?

She threw the brush into the bucket, stood, and something caught her eye. The fabric that she'd wrapped around her mother's hand.

A pair of silk panties with attached garters. Powder blue. Her knees weakened. They weren't clean. She picked them up, could smell her mother's arousal on them. She pocketed them, and left as she closed the door behind her.

\---

Fiona scowled at her reflection.

“Suits you,” Laveau offered, wiping her hands on a towel. “Makes you look like you are on the inside. Hard.”

Fiona chuckled.

“Hard.”

“Mmhmm.” The other witch put a fist in her hip, laid her other hand on the back of the chair. “Like a blood diamond. Got fire and stone pressing you on all sides, driving you into yourself. Made you who you are. In your bones, now, that ache of the Earth crushing at you.”

 

“Blood diamond… I like the sound of that.”

“Yeah, well, don't you let it go to your head. Barely fit through my door as it is.”

The Supreme gave her a wry smile. She picked up her purse, fussed with her hair a bit, and left.

\---

The front door opened with a creak, and Fiona closed it with a flick of her wrist. She took off her sunglasses, dropped them in her purse, tugged off her gloves. She started up the stairs, her hand skating over the banister. She paused at the top of the stairs, peeked into her daughter's room. Empty. Flowers in all the vases. Pristine curtains. Candles. Perfectly made bed. Fiona considered curling up in that bed. She left the picture perfect image before old habits took her for another ride. She opened her own door, parked her purse on the dresser she'd kicked, and took off her hat. She froze. Pristine curtains. Perfectly made bed. Flowers. In every god damned vase. Bleach.

“I wanted you to come home to a clean room,” a voice lilted, startling Fiona. She jumped.

“Jesus,” she growled. “Scared the shit out of me, prowling around here like a cat.” She kept her back turned, her face down. She didn't want her daughter to see the damage.

Cordelia left her post in the doorway, went over to the curtains, threw them wide open. “You should let the sunlight in more often. It's good for you.”

Fiona grunted, blocked the offensive light with a hand over her eyes.

Cordelia turned around, watched her mother turn away. She caught a glimpse of her face, a scar. Nasty. Purple. She stepped closer, steeled herself for the Sight, just in case, and caught her mother under the chin with cool fingertips.

“Oh, Mama.” Her voice cracked.

Fiona tried to jerk away. She didn't want the pity.

“Don't,” she ground out.

Cordelia took it in. All of it. The scar ran from her hairline, where no hair grew in a perfect crescent, over her brow, where no hair grew in a perfect line, over the lid. It followed to her cheek, below the cheekbone, where it stopped in a gouge. Fiona opened her eyes and Cordelia let out a small sound. Her left eye was pale, not quite round anymore, and the pupil was still slightly blown.

“I'm so sorry.”

“I said 'don’t’.”

Fiona smacked her hand away, gasped, and felt her body float away from her.

_The scent of come filled the room, sweet moans, flashes of her own face, her own thighs, her breasts, bound up in a black Chanel dress, tight. Shuddering breaths, thighs quivering in the dark, fingers dipping in and out of sopping heat, a flash of a pair of powder blue panties. Soiled with come. Her own._

_“God, Mama, oh… fuck. F-fuck…”_

Fiona stumbled backward, hit the floor. Her daughter looked down at her, her eyes dilated. Lips parted.

“Was that…”

“The god damned Sight.” Fiona stood up, shakily. “Fuck,” she barked, “that was…”

“A ride?” Cordelia finished, putting her arms around her mother and helping her to the chair by her small table.

“That's a word for it.” Fiona lit up a cigarette, ran her hand through her hair. How the fuck was she supposed to word it, word that, word what she saw or even begin to process it? She didn't know what to do. To know that her daughter fantasized about her, the way she did about her daughter… a sickening thought struck her. One that sent her bones to acid and made her gut feel like a ball of iron. Had she done this to her daughter? Had she screwed her baby girl up so badly that she had to think about her own mother to get off now? What did that make her, then? Just like Cordelia's father. Just like her own father before him. Rolling nausea heaved its way into her skull, made its way up her throat and on, all over her Prada stilettos, her Oriental area rug, Cordelia's lap.

Her daughter didn't bat an eye. She took her mother's cigarette from the trembling hand, put it in the ashtray, took her black leather pumps off of her slender feet, wiped her sweet mouth with the bar towel from the night table, and carried her to bed. She tucked her mother in, poured a fresh glass of water, left to change her clothes. Fiona closed her eyes, shut out the world, shut out her thoughts. Pulled the covers over her head. Fell asleep.

  
  
Cordelia changed her slacks, put her mother's shoes in her en suite, and wandered back to her mother's room. She was muttering. Sweating. Her body was taking a beating, with the new Supreme coming into her own. Nobody knew who the new Supreme was going to be, though plenty of people had ideas of their own. Fiona's sleeve had ridden up on her left arm, track marks finally visible. She sat her mother up enough to unzip the back of her dress, pulled it out from under her to get it over her head. Scars littered her mother's body, self inflicted interspersed with a running ledger of abuse and various proclivities. She pulled a white cotton nightgown from the dresser, one much more low-cut than she'd realised once she'd gotten it on the slender frame. Too slender. Her mother muttered in her sleep, begging, sobbing quietly. Cordelia caught her own name a few times. Her father's. Her grandfather's. She settled her mother back against the pillows, pulled the comforter up as high as it would go. Her mother turned her face into the pillows. Her blonde locks spilling over the fine bones of her cheek.


End file.
